The elevator ride to Seraphina Croft’s penthouse was a blur of humiliating, agonizing panic for Julian. He clutched his bruised wrist to his chest, his mind racing in a hundred different directions, unable to process the absolute absurdity of what had just happened at the café.

*Victor Sterling.*

The relentless strobe of paparazzi flashbulbs illuminated the grand entrance of the Sterling Plaza, bouncing off the polished marble columns and the gleaming hoods of luxury town cars.

Julian Thorne adjusted the lapels of his custom tuxedo, his stomach churning with a toxic cocktail of anxiety and

The champagne soaked into the cuffs of Julian’s trousers, the shattered crystal sparkling mockingly on the floor, but he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

Around him, the ballroom was on its feet, a thunderous ovation echoing off the vaulted ceilings as Clara reached the bottom of the stairs. Vi